


Dresden Age Inquisition

by Pkrmgc



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, Inquisitor Dresden, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pkrmgc/pseuds/Pkrmgc
Summary: Memory is a peculiar thing, or so I’ve heard it said: that makes our triumphs fade with dawning light even as our failures haunt us evermore.Or, Harry Dresden stumbles out of the breach and does his best to save the world the only way he knows how.





	1. Down the Rabbit Hole

Dresden Age Inquisition by Thepkrmgc

Disclamer: I don’t own any of the rights, I’m not making any money off this, please don’t sue me.

Kudo’s to theassassinlover and itachi-Uchiha-lover for betaing!

  


Chapter one: Down the Rabbit hole

  


Memory is a peculiar thing, or so I’ve heard it said: that makes our triumphs fade with dawning light even as our failures haunt us evermore.

  


I ran as if my life depended on it, and considering the eldritch chittering behind me it probably did. Vaulting over an emerald stone as I sprinted through the miasma, a glimmer of daylight in the distance calling me towards a distant spire. Gritting my teeth as my hand blazed in agony I pulled myself up that forsaken slope, beckoned forward by an angel clad in green. Throwing myself upward in a last desperate bid to reach the summit her hand grasped mine and exhaustion overtook me like an olive mist.

I woke up in a dungeon , iron manacles weighing heavy upon me even as the green fire on my hand sent tendrils of pain shooting up my arm. My head was a fog, but I grimly wished that I could at least remember who it was that I’d managed to piss off this time. From the guardsman’s sneer, I doubted that my lack of memories would be taken into consideration when the sentencing began. It wasn’t long before the clatter of rusted bolts signaled that my interrogators had arrived. I know good cop/bad cop when I see it, (even if the particulars of what exactly a cop was eluded me) and they had their act down to a tee, and I’m not ashamed to admit that my silent act didn’t last long under the pressure.

I told them what I remembered, all five minutes of it. Still, it came as something of a surprise when they actually let me out of the cell in response, though considering it was followed by the whole “there’s a hole in the sky filled with demons” thing I didn’t have long to enjoy the mountain air.. As baffling as the whole situation was, I wasn’t just about to stand by while the world ended around me. I didn’t know why this Cassandra lady thought that I could do something about the sky hole of doom, but it couldn’t hurt to make an effort. To her credit, she tried to explain the situation as we made our way through the mob. I understood her words, but completely lacked the context behind what she meant. Some peace talks were destroyed and someone important was killed, leaving me to stumble out into the ashes and get blamed for everything, but I wouldn’t learn about the groups involved in the whole mess until much later.

It wasn’t like I had much time for reflection anyway, not with rocks falling from the sky like demonic artillery and the cacophony of battle echoing across the valley. One of them got a lucky hit, and shattered the bridge beneath our feet. It sent us tumbling down onto the ice below with an earthshaking crunch, and a pair of shades proceeded in attempting to disembowel us. Preferring my guts where they are I grabbed the nearest thing to hand, some kind of mace tipped pole-arm, and proceeded to bash what passed for the thing’s head in. This, in turn, provoked another discussion at sword-point where I frantically tried to reassure its owner that the only head bashing I intended to do was toward the demons currently trying to eat our faces. That settled, we fought our way through the frozen riverbed until we came across a beleaguered group of defenders fighting below one of the smaller rifts; this one led by an honest to god elf.

Any nerdgasm I might have had was interrupted when said elf, Solas as I later learned, grabbed my marked hand and thrust it towards the rift, and a torrent of memories swept over me. The smallest of fragments drifted to the surface of consciousness, moments here and there: of binding and sealing, of slamming a door. And though it was a mere brushstroke on the canvas of the tapestry that was my life, I knew what I had to do. This rift was a bloody scar upon the world, an affront to father sky, and with a clench of my fist and a cry of Disperdorius I bid it closed.

There was a moment of silence as everyone took a collective sigh of relief, I took a moment to check to see if any more memories were forthcoming, but in their absence I was formally introduced to the people who I had just fought beside. Varric struck me as a fellow connoisseur of leather dusters, if a bit crazy for walking around bare-chested in the middle of an alpine winter. It's not like we got to chat for long what with the sky falling down upon our ears and all. After a moment to catch our breath it was back to our amateur mountain climbing expedition through a demon infested winter wonderland. A bit of skirmishing aside, it didn’t take long for us to reach the forward operating base.

We were met by the “good cop” from before and some bureaucrat in a dress, who, by the sound of it was one of the main proponents of the whole “let's run around panicking like a chicken with its head cut off” doctrine, which would be all well and good if he wasn’t trying to order my head to be cut off in the process. It was something I would see all too often in the coming months: fear and hopelessness driving desperate actions, which in turn cause a despair all of their own. I think that’s why, in time, I would come to embrace the mantle of Inquisitor. I might not believe in the maker, but if putting their faith in me gave people the strength to make the world a better place then who was I to tell them otherwise?

The mark flared up again, and while I’ve gotten damn good at suppressing pain over the years, it cut through all my mental shields like a hot knife through butter. If it weren’t for the chilly winter air I might have passed out then and there. When the pain subsided I looked up to find everyone expecting me to make some sort of tactical decision, as if I hadn’t been rotting in their jail an hour ago. Understandably baffled by this I asked Cassandra, who was apparently my designated parole officer, why I was suddenly the one making decisions?

“It's your mark.” was her response, as if they hadn’t just imprisoned me because of it.

“They're your soldiers.”

“Yes, but you are the objective they need to protect.” Frankly I just thought they wanted it not to be their fault if the assault just went horribly wrong.

“Look, just flip a coin or something, the sky-hole isn’t going to get any smaller while we sit around debating the issue...”

A coin was produced from one of Varric’s many pockets and so the matter was decided, a headlong charge into demonic territory it was.

I had expected to have an army at my back, but the state of the few ragtag troops that joined us really hammered home just how dire the situation was. These people had been fighting nonstop over the past few days against a tide of monsters that must have seemed unending. They had held the line in the mud and snow as the world seemed to fall apart around them. I couldn’t blame them for looking for a miracle, I just hoped that I could deliver on their expectations. And then I saw it, where they found me falling from the sky to land amid the ash and smoke with hundreds dead around me. It must have seemed like a vision of hell made real. No wonder they thought me some kind of monster, in their place, I might have done the same.

Then there it was, the breach in all it’s freakish glory, as spires of twisted stone rose up all around it, as if they were straining to pierce the heavens from below. And from it emerged a loathsome baritone, echoing off the blasted walls with words like Sacrifice and Apotheosis. But even those ominous overtones paled in comparison to how utterly tainted the place felt, as if the blood of innocents had seeped into the very stones and dyed them red. Varric called it red lyrium, voice filled with caution born of dire experience, but I was too busy retching up my meager rations to care. Stumbling forward, desperate to be anywhere so long as it was away from here, I tripped over a loose stone and fell into the center of the crater. My duster turned what would have been an impromptu self-impalement on a set of glowing granite spikes into a nasty set of bruises and a few cracked ribs instead.

I looked up into a vision of myself, standing tall before a monster cloaked in shadows, an old woman cloaked in battered papal robes crucified before it. She screamed for me to run, but I’ve never been one to stand by as others died before me. The beast raised its hand dismissively as I raised mine in anger. A word of power came to my lips before a blur of motion sent the apparitions back into the dust from whence they came. I knelt there in the cinders, my mind blurring with static and memories until the others arrived, asking questions I could not answer. Until the rift opened in an emerald vortex, and the moment of truth was upon us at last.

I’m not sure what I expected to come off of the smaller sky-hole below the breach, but a ten meter tall purple spiky thing with the proportions of an Olympic body builder was not it. I would later learn that this was something called a “Pride demon”, which probably explains why it didn’t take well to being called a “Barney wannabe”, and came charging headlong at me far faster than you would think anything of its bulk could go. If I was Leonidas I would probably have made an epic leap onto its chest and stabbed it to death with whatever pointy object I had on hand. In the absence of spartan valor, however, I made a mighty war cry (that may have sounded like a pathetic squeal of terror) and dove out of the way so it could disembowel itself on the rock formation behind me. Nobody seems to believe me when say that the whole process was entirely accidental…

Its guardian may have been defeated, but the breach still hung overhead. As much as I wanted to just lay on the mud and nurse my aching ribs there was still work to be done. So I took the pain, and the rage at the thought that these demons might be let loose upon the world, took the pride in my victory and the raw joy of survival, and I cast it into the abyssal sky so that no more would it threaten the realms of men. Exhausted from the effort, I passed out as a flash of neon green overtook my vision once again.

  


(A/N, I’ve been meaning to write something like this for a while, and decided to experiment with writing a fic as I was playing the game alongside it. I hope you enjoyed the initial results, if you have any questions or comments please feel free to leave a review.

Oh, and I’m still trying to think of dresdenified nicknames for the main cast, I’ve got a few already in mind but Varric and Iron Bull took the easy ones already so if anyone has suggestions please let me know)


	2. He's Just a Very Naughty Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dresden Age Inquisition by thepkrmgc  
> Disclamer: I don’t own any of the rights, I’m not making any money off this, please don’t sue me.  
> Kudo’s to theassassinlover and itachi-Uchiha-lover for betaing!
> 
> Chapter 2: He’s just a Very Naughty Boy

I woke up in softness: all things considered, this was something of a surprise; though the muted ache of a broken rib was all too familiar. After a brief interrogation, where I ascertained that my visitor was not, in fact, some kind of demon waiting to rip my throat out, and probably giving the poor nurse shock of her life in the process. I took a moment to clear my head and shrugged on my duster before heading out. If I was walking to my execution, then at least I wouldn’t keep the headsman waiting.  
The mob outside was not entirely unexpected. Though considering that the last time I had seen many of these people was when they were standing outside my prison, calling for me to be burned at the stake, it was somewhat unnerving to see them all lined up and nodding respectfully. Keep in mind that, at this point, I had no idea who the heck this Andraste person was, let alone what it meant to be their herald. They could have been calling me the grand parmesan of the Flying Spaghetti Monster for the sense it made to me.  
Still, the intent was fairly clear at least, for all the times they blessed me you would have though I’d been having a sneezing fit in the middle of the road. It wasn’t hard to figure out why either. The breach still hung there in the distance, like a swollen pus filled wound upon the world, but between the lack of giant rocks falling from the sky and the conspicuous absence of demons there seemed to be a consensus that I’d more than earned my parole. I just hoped that the people actually in charge of making the decision would say the same.  
Correctly assuming that the big church-like building was the chantry, I made my way through the streets, doing my best to stay inconspicuous and failing miserably in the face of the eager crowds. The church itself was empty, though I could hear the sounds of debate echoing down the hall. I took a moment to stop and Listen to get a better feel of the situation. Dress-man seemed to have transitioned from panicked stupidity to its lawful equivalent. Though at least he wasn’t calling for my outright execution anymore; but Sandy’s change of heart really caught me off guard. You couldn’t fake that kind of conviction, and all the righteous anger that was so terrifying to be interrogated by was being put to my defense. Plus, the fact that I had been politely asked to attend this meeting instead of dragged here in chains spoke volumes. The conversation died down before long, they’d heard my footsteps, and it was time to face the music.  
I barely held in my laughter when Rodney was faced with the same suspicion that he’d so eagerly cast upon me. But that turned to alarm when they started to refer to me as some sort of chosen one. God, Maker, or even the Force: I don’t care what you believe in, my choices are my own. Leave the prophecy stuff to the Potter kid, I want nothing to do with it. That kind of road doesn’t have a happy ending and I wasn’t about to become some kind of Joe of Arc to prove it.  
Sandy was persistent, though: “You were the right man in the right place.”  
“Yeah, that happens sometimes, I solve a lot of problems. Not every coincidence is a result of divine intervention.”  
“The ones who found you saw a woman behind you in the rift: urging you forwards. As if Andraste herself had appeared to save you from the cursed fire.”  
“Those men were exhausted, and the mind is more than capable of deceiving itself in the best of times. That woman they saw was a trick of the light, or a demon about to finish me off. Heck, it could have been a space alien for all we know.”  
Lily interjected “The fact remains that the mark on your hand is the key to sealing the breach.”  
I wasn’t about to let good cop deify me with circumstantial evidence. “That doesn’t mean your god just up and gave it to me. I can distinctly remember trying to gnaw my own arm off in that cell of yours just to stop this thing from ripping me in half.” I slammed the hand in question down onto the table for emphasis and spoke frankly. “Look, I’m all for this whole standing against the darkness thing: it’s kind of what I do. But find someone else to be your damn messiah!”  
I took a deep breath, taking a moment to force my anger down, “If you are truly trying to restore order.”I took the offered hand and met her iron grip with one of my own. “I’m in.”  
It might have been best to leave it at that but I couldn’t help myself. “Do we really have to call it the Inquisition, though? I mean sure: nobody will expect it. But couldn’t we pick a name that’s less ‘malleus malificarum’ and has more of a ‘puppies and sunshine’ vibe?”  
You could have heard the sound of Sandy’s teeth grinding from across the room.  
Still, it takes a lot more than a handshake to establish an order of questionable holiness. And while it quickly became clear that my role was more akin to that of a figurehead than an administrator, which I was perfectly fine with by the way. Josephine might be crazy enough to actually enjoy paperwork but I sure as hell don’t. So barring any official responsibilities, and with my broken ribs exempting me from heavier duties, I decided to make myself useful by reading anything I could get my hands on.  
I had been slowly getting fragments of my memories back but it was hardly something I could count on. I had already come up short on the most basic of common knowledge, and I wasn’t about to let that state of affairs continue. I might have forgotten, I might only remember the most basic facts about who I was and where I came from, but I could still learn. The fact that I didn’t have to deal with the crowds of people treating me like I was some storybook hero come to life if I was reading alone in my cabin was merely an added bonus.  
That s not to say I didn’t talk to anyone, far from it in fact. You see, In addition to the standard sort of handshake diplomacy that greases the wheels of every institution, holy or otherwise, it turned out that being a herald means that you have to do everything from meet with dignitaries to supervise the volunteers Sparkles was training out in the yard.  
Now, I’d thought that I’d acquitted myself pretty well during the whole demonpocalipse stage of things, but Cassandra apparently disagreed going into great detail about how my fighting style was “a disgrace to anyone who’d ever picked up a pole-am”, and randomly siccing groups of trainees on me over the course of our spars.  
Said sparring seemed to consist mostly of Sandy repeatedly beating the shit out of me with large pieces of metal, but apparently, that’s the standard procedure around these parts. Or at least standard procedure for anyone stupid enough to call Miss Pentaghast “Sandy” to her face. All jokes aside, those lessons probably saved my life a dozen times over in the coming days. It’s a lot better to sweat in practice than bleed in war. “Stick them with the pointy end”, while technically accurate, fails to capture the subtle nuances that mean life or death in an actual fight. I got a fair few hits of my own in too, I haven’t lived this long by collecting bottle caps, whatever those are, and between a few old aikido tricks and the good old Dresden headbutt I wasn’t the only one walking away bruised.  
I eventually managed to talk Sandy into lending me her old dog-eared copy of the Tale of the Champion. Which despite the mortal wounds inflicted upon it’s innocent parchment, (I mean seriously, who the hell stabs a book?) was apparently an essential primer to the whole Civil War thing that everyone was talking about. As far as historical fiction goes it was one of the best I’ve ever encountered, but it was clearly written to entertain instead of inform. Still, aside from a smattering of rather blatant propaganda and the testimony of some exhausted refugees it was all I had. With Cullen preventing all the new recruits from accidentally falling on their own swords, I decided to go straight to the source.  
I’m glad I did. With most of the camp looking to me for answers, Varric was content to give me space. It wasn’t quite to the same degree, but he had been a prisoner in all but name when the conclave blew its top. To hear him tell it, if it weren’t for his razor wit he might have joined me in that icy cell. And sure, I might have had a chance to catch my breath but I was still walking a dangerous path and I knew it. If I didn’t live up to expectations then the crowds that had cheered my name that morning would be calling for my head before too long. Varric seemed to get that better than anyone, that while the breach was plugged for the moment, there was still a long way to go before the world was saved, if it was possible to save it at all.  
He said such things are beyond heroes and I couldn’t bring myself to disagree. This was more than just some dragon to slay, something beyond the scope of prophecies and rings of power. The breach wasn’t evil, it was just there, warping the fabric of reality with its very existence. But I couldn’t help but notice that despite his somber mood, For all his gallows humor about how anyone sane would get the hell out of Dodge, he didn’t budge an inch, and when I came to him for intel he was there. He didn’t joke about my amnesia, he didn’t treat it like some passing phase, he just calmly and concisely gave me the information I needed, and recommended a few books where I could learn more. He couldn’t even begin to explain what the heck was going on with those red rocks at the temple though, other than advising me to stay well away from the stuff. Considering how I’ve had hangovers that felt better than getting within a few feet of the stuff, I fully intended to, even if I doubted I would be so lucky…  
Other conversations came as a bit more of a surprise, Like Leliana of all people asking me for spiritual advice out of the blue one evening. I almost interrupted her with my standard “I am not the herald of andraste” line which was becoming nearly as reflexive as breathing at this point: but for once I managed to hold my tongue. Memories flipped through my mind like pages on a calendar and I knew that somehow I’d been there before: on my knees begging God or the stars or anyone who would listen for answers they did not possess, but I hadn’t been alone. I’d had someone there to listen, to reassure me that while I might wander from the path of the righteous I wasn’t lost. That if I had fallen I could still rise, and that for all I had done I was not a monster.  
I couldn’t speak for her god, but I could listen to Leliana: and underneath her grief, underneath her stubborn pride and righteous anger: it was the voice who had been betrayed by their own ideals. And the message was clear “I think I’m lost”, “I think I need help”. I’d never had her faith, I wasn’t her pastor or her therapist, hell’s bells I was barely her friend: but I was there, and so I did what I could, even if it was only providing a sympathetic ear. In the end, she chose to keep her own council, and I was left to stargaze alone, lost amid a sea of my own thoughts.  
It wasn’t long after that I ran into the resident cryptic mentor figure behind this whole shebang: they have a knack for showing up when your deep in thought.  
I know the type, heck I’ve played the role myself on occasion, but Solas? Solas knows how to do it with style, only he could start off by asking how you're adapting to the whole hero thing, lead it to a subtle bit of fear-mongering about the chantry. while managing to fit in some bragging and exposition about the fade along the way.  
Still, I thought I had him pegged, and was about to start packing for the long hike down into the hinterlands when I noticed a glimmer of silver on my bedside table. A pentacle, inset with a gleaming garnet, twinkling in the sunset’s fading light, and beside it a note, written in a flowing organic hand. It seemed achingly familiar but as much as I wanted to jump at the chance, at any chance to find the next piece of the puzzle of my tattered past, I forced myself to read the scrap of parchment first.  
“They relieved you of this, after the breach. Prisoners are parted from their magic items as a matter of course, but its absence won’t be missed. Your mother was a remarkable woman, though the path you tread goes beyond her distant reach.  
\- A Friend”  
Carefully folding the note and storing it in a duster pocket, somewhat resigned to the lack of epiphanies, I reached toward the locket with an almost reverent care. It was good I was sitting on the bed when the memories hit me: I somehow doubt that further head trauma would have been conducive to my ongoing recovery. Whereas before, remembrance had been thrust through my mind like a needle strung with synaptic thread, here it swept over me like a wave, not depositing new thoughts so much as clearing the fog over the old.  
My Name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, my wallet told me that much, but that Names of our family define us near as much as our own and I was not the only one to bear the name Dresden in my time . I remembered: Margaret and Malcolm, roses on a grave, my brother clad in white, and a grandfather steadfast behind me. Above the horizon hung a distant utopia that I would forever strive to deserve, and it’s princess’s that I would die to protect. Or had I done that already? In the distance, the wind howled: “Die Alone”, but I knew that I carried them with me everywhere. That while we may be parted, I would not - could not let them down.  
I woke up with a tear stained face and a heart full of resolve. I had a job to do, but the sooner I got it done, the sooner I could go home again. Even if I couldn’t quite remember where exactly home was, what it looked like, or who most of these ephemeral silhouettes were. They were probably worried sick about me. Crying wouldn’t get me anywhere and we were burning daylight, it was time to go to the hinterlands.

(AN, I don’t know why, but it’s always kind of bugged me how fantasy settings seem to collectively forget that pole-arms are a thing, or at least find them unworthy of their heroes. I mean we know they are a thing considering how fond certain groups are of sticking severed heads on them, and you would think that it would be a go-to tactic for Fereldens considering their main rivals are the mounted chevaliers. Or that dwarves might find it useful to kill darkspawn from a distance that doesn’t get you covered in their toxic blood. But the coolness of swords trumps everything else I suppose. That little rant aside, Dresden’s going to be using spears for the foreseeable future, even once he remembers his magic because of the whole “thou shalt not kill” thing. I’m kind of tempted to give him a hand crossbow so he can pull off a medieval Dirty Harry impression, though…

Oh, and Cullen’s nickname is totally based off his shiny armor, just keep telling yourself that until you believe it. 

Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed, I try to respond to most of them via PM, as always if you have any questions/comments/ideas/penguins feel free to share them and I hope you enjoyed this little exercise in creativity!)


	3. War Never Changes

Dresden Age Inquisition by Thepkrmgc

  


Disclamer: I don’t own any of the rights, I’m not making any money off this, please don’t sue me.

Kudo’s to theassassinlover and itachi-Uchiha-lover for betaing!

  


Dresden Age Inquisition, Chapter three: War Never Changes

  


I’m no stranger to conflict: my scars speak for themselves even if I can’t remember their stories. Years of battles have sewn a tapestry onto my very bones and despite everything I’ve forgotten those instincts remain. Even so, as we descended from the frostbacks we entered a world in conflict with itself. It wasn’t as simple as good vs evil, it wasn’t just “mages vs templars” or even “demons vs everyone”. Opportunists the world over, mercenaries of every stripe and Tevinter slavers, gathered in hopes of easy prey, only to get embroiled in this war of all versus all where the only winners were the crows.

   None of the groups were even remotely united, even the demons fought amongst themselves, and not even Leliana’s informants could keep track of all the factional disputes going on. I think that of all things is what let us get our first tentative footholds there. If any of the regional powers had made a concerted push against us there wasn’t much we could have done, for all our spirit, after the attrition at the breach we simply didn’t have enough blades at hand.

But they deemed us beneath their notice, there were more profitable targets at hand or half a dozen other things. In these few weeks, the fate of the world hung not in the hands of heroes but the whims of a dozen petty despots: and they chose to stay their hand.  

Despite all our team spirit, we still lost people. Thedas is dangerous enough without demons and deserters running rampant over the countryside. Cullen kept the full logs, but I made a point of remembering their names, and tried to add a personal touch to all the letters of condolences that inevitably waited upon my return to Haven. I’m not going to demean their sacrifice, or rationalize away the guilt in the name of some greater good.

Directly or indirectly, they died because we ordered them into the field. They died because they chose to fight the coming darkness instead of sitting back as it consumed the world. And whatever reasons they fought for, they died because I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough, or just wasn’t there. They died because they put their faith in me, and I couldn’t hold up my end of the bargain: some hero that makes me…  

Still, I’m no armchair commander: I wouldn’t have asked them to put their lives on the line if I wasn’t slogging through the mud right there beside them. I couldn’t be everywhere at once, but more often than not I was the one leading the charge when the time came to push into hostile territory. At least, I would have been, if not for Cassandra, who had voluntold the rest of us that she would be directing the forward operations in the region. Somehow, that translated into following my sorry ass halfway across the hinterlands trying to stop the rest of us from running into trouble: introducing said trouble’s face to her shield when it inevitably appeared.

And, unlike almost every other resource of note, trouble was the one thing we had absolutely no shortage of. From bandits, to apocalypse cults, seriously: why are there always cults! Even the bears must have eaten some bad honey or something because they seemed to have mistaken us for a bunch of wandering picnic baskets. The way things were going, I’m surprised the nugs didn’t try to rip our throats out.

As ominous as the dire fennecs were, the red lyrium was far more troubling: scattered deposits punching through the bowels of the earth while the world cried in pain. You could feel it’s greasy taint from miles away, marking the earth below even as rifts tore up the sky. The rifts felt alien, like some invaders from outside the mortal plane to be sent back from whence they came. The red kryptonite was an entirely mortal evil, somehow it belonged here: as warped as it was. I couldn’t have come close, not that I’d wanted to: if it weren’t for my staff it’d have brought me to my knees from half a dozen yards away. Thankfully, I didn’t have to: pervasive as it was, it’s taint still fled before a cleansing flame. Cassandra, oddly unaffected by the grim miasma, was quick to set the rocks ablaze: I pretended that I didn’t hear the screams.

The mage’s had struck a decisive blow with the fall of the circles, but their mass exodus from their circles had been anything but cohesive, and any discipline they had initially possessed was checked at the door. They had been unified by their shared oppression. But, having broken their chains, many found themselves unsure about what to do with their new-found freedom. For all their arcane power: the vast majority of them were scholars not soldiers, and they were ill equipped for a life outside their gilded cage.

Liberty might be ambrosia of the soul, but it makes a poor substitute for bread. They weren’t without allies, but there was a world of difference between saying that “You know what, maybe we shouldn’t lock toddlers in a tower for the rest of their lives just because they happen to have been born with magic.” and actively sheltering said mages with the templars hot on their tail. Many apostates came out in support of their emancipated brethren, but mistrust ran deep: each side blaming the other for inciting the templars to war.

And to top it off, they lacked leadership. Their college of enchanters might deserve props for being the closest thing to democracy you can get on Thedas. But the road to revolution was wracked by infighting and partisan debate, and the Grand Enchanter, supremely intelligent woman she may be, was a battlemage, not a diplomat. The Champion might have been able to unify them, but she was nowhere to be found. Though the Kirkwall delegation nearly elected her in absentia. To hear Varric tell it, she’d had enough of revolution to last a lifetime, going off to parts unknown after the battle: soaked in blood and tears.

As the enchanters departed to their respective circles to relay the call to arms those fissures remained, compounded by all the petty disputes within each circle’s hierarchy. What could have been a revolutionary army soon devolved into a hundred petty mobs roaming across the better part of four nations. Thousands would have starved, or else resorted to more desperate measures if the king of Ferelden hadn’t offered them sanctuary. Ostensibly in return for the mage’s assistance against the darkspawn ten years ago. Though the more cynical rumor’s commented on the king’s dalliances during the blight, and the Grand Enchanter’s striking resemblance to the late Heroine of Ferelden.

But it was a long road to Redcliff and, out of bloodlust or paranoia or simply ignorance it was one that many chose not to take. Some joined the Inquisition, happy to help save the world if it brought them their daily bread. The rest still needed to eat, and all too that food came out of the mouths of those with little enough to spare as is. Armies march upon their stomachs, and of all the forces fighting in the region: the Inquisition was the only one that brought it’s own food. What the marauding armies didn’t take, they burned: as famine became yet another weapon of war. In absence of bread, hungry refugees turned to the woods to fill their empty bellies, but that only served to bring the wolves down upon them as the beasts began to starve in turn.

But the templars? The templars were another matter entirely. Before the war, the Order had all the things the mage’s lacked, they were disciplined, organized, with a rigid chain of command that was well established before the war, and abilities uniquely suited to battle demonic threats. Their reputation, while tarnished by their inaction during the blight and carnage at Dairsmuid and Kirkwall: still ran deep. Centuries of chantry propaganda had left its mark, the winds of change had been blowing in recent years, but public opinion does not shift quickly or unanimously. As often as not they were welcomed as heroes: knights in shining armor coming to save the day.

But, like the mages, when the Templars split from the Chantry they cut themselves off from their logistical foundation. Before the war, they had been first and foremost a garrison force, tied to the circles nearly as much as the mages they were tasked to defend. While Lambert had pulled a great deal of troops to the capital before his untimely demise, when the Circle’s blew their tops casualty rates had been shockingly high: leaving tens of thousands of knights dead at their at their posts and the bulk of the survivors scattered and hungry for vengeance. Following the late Lord Seeker’s break from the Chantry, they shortly found themselves hungry for food as well.

Desertion ran rampant. The dwarven king, a Machiavellian bastard by all accounts, offered to double the Chantry’s lyrium ration for anyone willing to fight the darkspawn. It wasn’t long before the warden’s followed suit, well aware of the ever-present threat of darkspawn emissaries. A splinter faction, lead by Knight Commander Bryant, redefined their mission to one of mercy: and dedicated themselves to protecting those of their flock the war had led astray. What moderates they had were at the conclave, trying to forge a semblance of peace from their prophet’s ash. By the time I stumbled out in the middle of things they had either joined up with Sparkles or else met their god firsthand.

To make up for their losses, they turned to mass conscription: pulling men and women off their farms at sword point. Arming them with dead men’s clothes and sending them off to fight forces from beyond the fade with little more than a pitchfork and a prayer. They were the lucky ones: they weren’t issued lyrium, the limited supplies of the magic mineral being hoarded by the high command for personal use. We managed to talk some of those poor sods down after Bianca rendered their commanding officer shorter by a head. More often than not the home they’d left was gone, torn apart by the tides of war. A few joined the Inquisition, but most just merged with the unending flow of refugees displaced by the conflict or else turned to banditry: doing to others what had been done to them.

But behind the peasant levies was a core of fanatics. Veterans of countless battles against the worst the fade could throw at them, more dangerous than any hungry wolf. These were the men who’d watched the likes of Uldred and Orsino turn to monsters wearing human skin for the sake of madness and petty greed. Who’d seen a blood mage poison an Arl and teach a boy in his first decade to make the dead rise from their graves: only for both to get away with barely a slap on the wrist due to the actions of an elven mage with tainted blood. These were the men who saw a Blood Mage become a Champion, and kill her brother before a cheering crowd. These were men who’d had enough, and I’d seen their type before, heroin addicts at the end of their rope, with bodies ravaged by the war and withdrawal alike. eyes gleaming as if lit by the madness within. Any pretenses of nobility and honor they might have had in times of peace were long gone, or at least they’d stopped pretending. This was war, their actions said, so let the world burn: I’ve no fear for earthen hells for the road to heaven is paved in the blood of the unrighteous!

I’d almost have felt sorry for them, if not for what they did. I don’t know what kept them going, what fears fed the fires of their endless hunt and inspired all the atrocities they committed in the name of their absent god. But whatever they had it wasn’t faith. Faith means sacrifice, about forgetting yourself and your desires. Faith is about letting go of your fears and putting your hopes in something beyond your understanding, about trusting others even when you cannot trust yourself. Faith is about that constant struggle to make the world a better place, even if it’s not one you’ll live to see.

I am not a faithful man: trust has never been an easy thing for me to lend. For all my boisterous bravado I am not without my hubris, but I know faith when I see it. Amid the mists of memories, a torch was raised. A broken Sword that shone with light more radiant than a thousand suns that sung with a holy choir, a puppy cloaked in a silhouette of silver, and a Knight who was no less a Warrior without his Sword: even Sandy could count herself among their number. These crusaders disgusted me, how dare they claim to call themselves Knights as their actions _spat_ upon those worthy of the name

Righteous fury built within me, rising forth as if to say “ Look!” “Look at yourselves!” “Look at the earth around you and see the world you’ve set aflame!” “These fires were lit not by the whims of magic but the hubris of man!” And as if I were a blind man standing before the sun, I opened my eye and saw. I watched as the once noble men who had stood before me were twisted into dogs of war: eyes blinded by fear even as their minds were mangled by chains of blue. The world below me rippled and shifted as the pristine earth was burnt and scarred: the rifts on high weeping tears of blood and fire upon the ideological trenches winding across the mud below. Of my companions, I saw little as I fell onto my knees, a woman held in Varric’s hands, and a glimpse of seraph wings. I blacked out then, as a wolf’s paw closed my eyes, falling into haunted sleep: nightmares on every side.

When I woke up, I was in the makeshift triage pavilion we’d set up at the crossroads. Rising quietly, as not to rob the actual wounded of their rest. I slipped out into the predawn gloom to walk the empty streets. Not the safest thing, sure, but I needed some time to think: processing the fever dreams that had been seared into my brain. The more I thought, the more I realized that these were no mere nightmares, no mere products of indigestion or a disease of the mind, but a vision of truth.

   What kind of life had I led, that I had faced such horror’s eye to eye and come out swinging? What kind of person I had been, to so eagerly stare into the abyss: knowing that I would not forget it’s gaze? Who were these people, these heroes, who had so often stood beside me: fighting beside a man who did not even know their names? What is a man but the sum of all his experiences? The little I knew of mine terrified me to the core.

I had to see, I had to know, and so I took a breath and, holding my unmarked hand before me I looked. My duster sleeve was clad in a plate, the hand within was ice. but while it was cracked and scarred. While it was marked by time and toil: stained with blood and broken dreams It was whole. And it was human: and that was enough. Releasing a long held breath I blinked and closed my Sight, raising hand and head alike to greet the coming dawn.

Mother Giselle joined me not long after, as we worked to turn those battered hovels into a refuge for those cast aside by war. And while I’ve never been all that comfortable around people of the clergy, she had a quiet grace that helped put my troubled mind at ease. While she clearly believed that I was the herald, or at least the next best thing. She didn’t try to force the title upon me (cough, Leliana, cough) or attribute it to false humility. She just accepted that reasonable people can differ and got down to the business of planning how we could stop the rest of her order from bringing an exalted march down on my head.

Part of me will always resent the chantry for trying to throw me to the wolves in those early days, but they didn’t really have many other options at the time. Chicken little was right, the sky was falling: and they were doing their best to bury their heads in the sand. But that wasn’t about to change anytime soon, if I wanted them to see the world as it really was then I would have to do some digging. I was a threat to them only as long as they considered me to be an outsider. I would have to meet them on their own terms in order to give peace a chance.

By this point, any hope I might have had of remaining a simple consultant were getting slimmer by the day. Harry Dresden: Rifts sealed, demons vanquished: no love potions or other entertainment, was ever going to work out. But as I started to see the real impact we were having on the region it didn’t seem like as big a deal as it used to be. From those who have much to give, much is required, and these people deserved all the help I could muster on their behalf. I might not be the Herald they were looking for, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t raise a call to arms. Hope’s a powerful thing, and when it came to the rifts, fear was quite literally the enemy. If this green flare embedded in my hand could provide the hope they needed, if it could light their way through these dark times: then who was I to tell them not to follow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N  
> After much deliberation, I have decided to officially make this a Harry/Cassandra story. It wasn’t love at first sight, it’s not going to happen fast, it might not work out: they both have a ton of baggage getting in the way of things even if they do realize a mutual attraction. But that seems to be the way the story is going and i’m curious to see how things turn out.
> 
> Normally I would reply individually to reviews, but Phant0m5’s concerns about the first law of magic brought up a few things worth sharing  
> First off, Dresden does have his magic. the first law of magic still applies even if he can't remember it, there's a reason I gave him a spear to take on mortal threats. I have plans for specific points for these things to come back into play in a big way.  
> Secondly, Harry's not in Kansas anymore, the Trevelyan Mage Inquisitor I'm playing alongside this fic kills dozens if not hundreds of people with magic while still remaining more or less sane. Harry's magic is something fundamentally different, that’s why he hasn’t really taken note of the spells Solas has been slinging around, and even once he knows he has it there will still be a lot of kinks to work out.
> 
> Lastly, any ideas about what nickname Varric would give Harry would be much appreciated. I’ve got a pretty big role planned for him in a chapter or two. Currently the best idea I’ve got is “Cowboy” but thedas doesn't really have the concept for those.
> 
> As always, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed: it always puts a smile on my face when I wake up and see that some new person has followed/favorited my little tale. If you have any questions, comments, or suggestions feel free to leave a review or toss me a PM! )


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